


ink.

by shionz



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Artist Victor Nikiforov, Ballet Dancer Victor Nikiforov, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff, Humor, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Romance, Writer Katsuki Yuuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27981735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shionz/pseuds/shionz
Summary: He shakes his head to rid himself of such self-deprecating thoughts and mutters, “Very romantic, indeed,” voice dripping with sarcasm as he pins Viktor with another teasing stare. “You know, with an entrance like that, I find it quite hard to believe that you used to be a dancer.”“Yuuri!” He pouts, playing indignant as he takes a step forward. “I’ll have you know I am the most graceful man in all of Japan right now.”And then he proceeds to trip over the back leg of Yuuri’s desk chair.1800s Yuuri & Viktor, a writer and an artist, madly in love.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 29
Kudos: 97





	ink.

It takes a lot to shake Yuuri out of the trancelike state he inevitably sinks into when he takes the time to sit down and write. He'll feel the telltale itch of inspiration prickling under his skin all day as he works around the bustling onsen—a random line of dialogue or the perfect description of a dream he had some nights ago, raging like a tsunami in his veins, waiting to burst through his fingertips and flood the starch white paper of his one too many notebooks; and when that initial contact of ink on paper is made, one line turns into two, turns into twenty, turns into five pages—and then it takes a snap or seven in front of his face to realize he’s even being spoken to. 

Sometimes Mari will just take it upon herself to grab his attention by snatching the pen directly out of his hands, scribbling a shiny, black dot on his nose until he’s all but shrieking in his hidden corner of the family restaurant (when he’s supposed to be— _yes_ , he'll admit it—working instead). 

Yuuri can't say he appreciates it very much, but it does do the trick every time… 

It’s late, now. The house is blessedly silent after a long day of cheerful conversation noisy enough to bleed through the walls of nearly every room in the building, the clinking of dishes as him and his sister served every patron who stepped inside, and the calming trickle of water sounding from the onsen out back. 

Now it’s just him and his notebook (him and his _thoughts_ —which can be a good or bad thing, really, depending on the day), the lantern on his desk painting the bedroom in a gentle, warm shade of orange that puts his mind at ease, makes putting his thoughts down just that little bit easier. 

His hand moves frantically across the page, eager to finally etch the words that have been filling his mind all day onto paper. He had been hoping, desperately, that the idea wouldn't escape him like a tendril of smoke in the wind, and leave him annoyed for the rest of the night over having forgotten so easily, but thankfully, the words stayed firmly put.

It’s nothing but a blurry plot outline and brief character descriptions at the moment, something he'll breathe life into over the coming months until it’s another unpublished novel sitting atop the stack of many others collecting dust in his desk drawer. 

Though, the dust is slowly being wiped away now due to _someone_ begging to read them every time he comes over.

The story taking shape in his mind is a far cry from what he’s written in previous years, a little less depressing and philosophical and a little more… sweet and simple—a tale of two childhood friends running away together and seeking adventure far, far away from their stifling small town. And if he’s even more invested than usual in his work because one character reminds him of a certain blonde haired, blue eyed beauty, well… 

That’s likely why he doesn’t notice somebody has been throwing pebbles at his window in the dead of night until they come to a halt, a quiet yet persistent noise that’s only noticeable once it disappears. 

And it’s immediately followed by a voice he would recognize anywhere, grumbling in irritated Russian.

Yuuri stills for a moment, eyes darting around his desk and straining to hear a voice he can't be entirely sure he isn’t just imagining. Because surely if he showed up he would have just used the side entrance and tiptoed upstairs like he has hundreds of times before. 

A handful of seconds pass, and the nighttime air slides back into its usual tranquil silence, with nothing but the waves crashing gently against the shore in the distance to fill it. Yuuri frowns and shakes his head; definitely just imagining things, then—constantly staying up until the early hours of the morning was bound to catch up to him like this eventually.

But then Yuuri hears the very familiar and very _loud_ whining he has somehow grown to love as Viktor calls out his name from the top of his lungs, apparently deeming himself Hasetsu’s new resident rooster and absolutely needing to wake up everybody in town instead of just coming inside. 

Yuuri bolts upright and runs to his window, the pen in his hand clattering against the desk as he stands. What in God’s name could be so important that Viktor has to start _yelling_?

Well… he has a habit of doing that quite often, actually.

The wood of the frame creaks and groans as Yuuri pushes it up and sticks his head out, and he immediately squints against the light but frigid wind biting at his skin. When Yuuri finally looks down, though, he is met with a face _far_ too excited for it being this late at night. 

“What on earth are you doing? Are you trying to wake the whole town?” he hisses, but can't deny the way his heart skips a beat at the sight below him. The front yard is engulfed in a vast darkness, yet Viktor still stands out like a beacon of glittering light, bright and enchanting under the sliver of moon in the sky.

His hair is tied back in the messiest of ponytails, blonde strands escaping its hold and curling around his face—quickly pulled back in his rush to get here, no doubt—and his silk, white undershirt isn’t even fully buttoned; there isn’t a jacket in sight, either, Yuuri notes with a disapproving frown. 

He looks like he simply jumped out of bed and dressed in the first thing he could find before running straight over. And knowing him, it’s very likely that that is exactly what he did. 

Viktor beams and waves up at him with a grin wide enough to make his eyes crinkle, and he jostles the brown bag Yuuri now notices slung over his shoulder. “Inspiration has struck, my love!” he calls, still feeling no need to reel his voice in. “Let me up!”

Yuuri huffs in disbelief and casts a glance down the street, pleasantly surprised that no neighbors have felt nosy enough to come outside yet. Because if there’s one thing small towns are known for—it’s residents inserting themselves where they do not need to be, and _gossip_. 

His lips quirk up as he looks back down to find Viktor still bouncing on his toes, buzzing with a tangible excitement. 

Minako—a dear family friend who may be the loveliest and most elegant in appearance, but is quite indelicate and vulgar in personality—used to impart her wisdom of failed relationships upon Yuuri like they were horror stories; warning him of men and women who hide behind intricate façades just to lure in significant others, masquerading as better than they really are—only to shatter the illusion months later, leaving you stuck with somebody you would have never been interested in in the first place.

She had taken _months_ to warm up to the vivaciousness Viktor emanates for that reason alone, rather dubious of his intentions when he seemed thoroughly smitten with Yuuri from the very beginning (for whatever reason). Though as weeks turned into months and months became a year, it was obvious that that was just the way Viktor was. He barged in like a whirlwind and hasn’t changed since his arrival; if anything he is even _more_ intense, now. 

Yuuri rolls his eyes fondly. “Are you aware of the wondrous phenomenon known as doors?”

Viktor pauses, blinks, then _wilts_ like the saddest flower. Yuuri’s surprised he doesn’t fully commit to the act and collapse right where he stands. “I know I tend to be a bit airheaded, but Yuuri…” He pouts, a hand rubbing at his chest like he was just physically wounded.

Yuuri bites his lip against a giggle, though Viktor notices his slip-up anyway if the playful smile on his face is anything to go by. 

This is definitely _not_ behavior he should be condoning. If Mari could see him now, swooning over a handsome man throwing pebbles at his window to get his attention, when he should be _writing_ instead, he would get a swift smack to the side of the head for turning into such a lovesick fool—that, he knows for sure. 

Yuuri opens his mouth to tease some more, but freezes at the sound of a nearby window sliding shut; quite aggressively, too, echoing down the street around them. Yuuri’s heart jumps to his throat and his eyes widen as he and Viktor lock gazes once more over a tense beat of silence, feeling like two children caught with their hands in the cookie jar, waiting for their punishment to come… 

And then Viktor has to slap a hand over his own mouth to keep from bursting out laughing—and the tension is immediately broken. 

He doesn't look abashed in the slightest.

Yuuri heaves a sigh and shakes his head, tongue in his cheek. How he ended up with a man so shameless, he will never know. “I feel like this conversation would be easier if I wasn't dangling out of my window,” he drawls.

Viktor pulls his hand away from his mouth and raises it in a flourish toward Yuuri’s bedroom, expectant as he stomps his foot on the ground, gravel crunching noisily under his boot. “Well!” he exclaims.

He obviously didn’t take that window slamming shut as the very pointed warning that it was.

He shakes his head once more, exasperated but impossibly fond, then leans a bit further out to warily eye the pipe attached to the side of the house, one that stops just above Yuuri’s window and veers back where it connects to the roof. Yuuri can easily guess where this is going, and he's not entirely sure how he feels about it. 

“Are you…” He trails off, looking back and forth between the old (but fortunately sturdy) pipe and the silver haired man now shifting restlessly on his feet.

Viktor just smiles, blinding as ever, and throws his arms up, making shooing motions with his hands until Yuuri finally acquiesces and moves further back—only after shooting a withering glance in his direction.

Yuuri shuffles away from the window, then, and sits back down on his desk chair, old habits kicking in as he anxiously fidgets in place, picking at the skin around his fingernails whilst he listens to Viktor make his way up.

Yuuri winces at the sound of his huffing and grunting and his clumsy kicks against the side of the house, no doubt resonating in the walls and stirring those who were sleeping soundly in the inn downstairs. The art materials in Viktor’s bag collide with every sudden movement, pens, pencils, and paints clacking together; the old pipe groans; Viktor’s boots scuff loudly against the wood—and Yuuri pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration, knocking his glasses askew.

 _Doors_ , he thinks to himself. What is so wrong with using a _door_? 

If the neighbors thought the two of them just _speaking_ was loud… 

Moments later, pale fingers grip the windowsill and Viktor heaves himself up, leaning halfway into the bedroom with his hair even messier than before and a cherry red flush blotched across his cheeks. Yuuri rests his chin in his palm with a tepid look on his face as his lover exhales, long and deep, before he clambers the rest of the way inside, pushing himself up further and tumbling unceremoniously to the floor. 

If his clothes weren’t already wrinkled from being thrown on so carelessly earlier, then they certainly are now, scrunched up and dirty from climbing and sliding against the old wood and paint of the Katsuki home. Viktor may not mind at the moment, but Yuuri knows him, and he’s most definitely going to throw a fit over his soiled clothes once morning comes.

Viktor sits there in silence for a short time, taking a moment to catch his breath with his head resting against the wall and his eyes closed—and Yuuri lets him, his hand now covering his lips to hold back an ugly snort at the ridiculous display that just unfolded before him.

After a minute’s passed, Yuuri picks up his fountain pen and taps it twice against the old desk beside him. “Now,” he starts, voice laced with amusement, “was that really necessary?”

And like the sound of Yuuri’s voice is all Viktor needs to feel energized again, his eyes snap open and he hops to his feet once more, casually dusting off his pants (a pair that were much too expensive, of course). 

When he finally glances up to meet Yuuri’s gaze, his smile is radiant and his eyes are wild—and if he stared into them long enough, Yuuri would swear he could see the cogs in Viktor’s brain physically turning as his mind flits through flashes of countless mediums, poses, and the most vibrant of colors. 

It’s a look Yuuri’s grown familiar with over the year that they’ve known each other, having seen it before, but only a handful of times. Though every time it appears, Yuuri feels like an electric shock surges through his veins, the fierce determination and passion woven through the blue of Viktor’s irises stoking the embers often residing quietly within Yuuri—like Viktor experiencing the overwhelming need to create a magnificent painting sets Yuuri’s own writing urges ablaze—like the fervor they each carry for their own craft, too, fuels the other’s. 

A writer and an artist, madly in love, and completely intertwined. 

Yuuri smiles as his fingers itch to grab hold of his notebook and continue what he started earlier, feeling more driven than he has in weeks with just one look at the man before him. 

Viktor straightens, splaying a hand over his chest in his standard show of dramatics. “Why, of course!” he replies. “How else does one keep the interest of such a lovely author if not by pretending life is a romance novel and scaling the side of their house in the middle of the night?” 

Yuuri huffs, a blush crawling high on his cheeks as he spins to face his desk again, eyes roving, distractedly, over the last few sentences he’d written down. He pointedly ignores the word ‘author’ slipping so easily past Viktor’s lips. Yuuri isn’t an _author_ ; he’s an average (at best) writer who was delusional enough to think he could make it big in the world of literature as a child, and is now too cowardly to share his work with anyone he isn’t already close to.

It’s an argument they’ve had before—one Yuuri’s had with friends and family, too—and if he mentions it now, Yuuri knows they’ll just talk themselves in circles until the sun rises, so he bites his tongue.

He shakes his head to rid himself of such self-deprecating thoughts and mutters, “Very romantic, indeed,” voice dripping with sarcasm as he pins Viktor with another teasing stare. “You know, with an entrance like that, I find it quite hard to believe that you used to be a dancer.”

“Yuuri!” He pouts, playing indignant as he takes a step forward. “I’ll have you know I am the most graceful man in all of Japan right now.” 

And then he proceeds to trip over the back leg of Yuuri’s desk chair. 

Yuuri instinctively throws his arm out to catch his fall and Viktor clutches it like a lifeline, his hands surprisingly soft for someone who works with them so often. Once Viktor rights himself, he clears his throat with a sheepish smile and shuffles across the room to settle on Yuuri’s futon, doing so with his own blush, now. 

Yuuri quirks an eyebrow. “As you were saying…” 

Viktor chuckles and sets his bag on the floor, throwing the front flap open to dig around in his art supplies. “Point taken.” He takes out a worn, leather sketchbook and a multitude of pens, pencils, and paint tubes held together by a black ribbon—the kind Viktor uses in his hair—and lays them out beside him. 

“But I was a damn good dancer,” Viktor continues with a smug look on his face, though it twists into something slightly more subdued as seconds pass. “It was just me being an idiot that ended that career before it could even begin.”

This is something they’ve discussed many times before, too, and Yuuri’s heart aches a little at the confession. 

A ballet dancer talented enough to be requested for shows all over the world, suddenly forced into retirement due to an injury he refused to accept, pushing himself until his only option was to give up performing for good. Though it seems the wound of a lost dream will take a long while to heal, for Yuuri hasn’t seen him dance once since his rather impetuous arrival in Hasetsu. 

He hopes he’ll have the pleasure of seeing it one day.

Yuuri’s amused expression softens to one of understanding and he gently knocks his foot against the futon, a small show of affection he isn’t too anxious to initiate on his own. “I believe you,” Yuuri replies. “I’m sure you were the best dancer in the world… but now you’re the best artist in the world, too. Lucky you,” he adds, a playful lilt to his voice as he turns to a blank page, “getting to be amazing at _two_ things in your lifetime.”

He hears Viktor laugh lightly, idly flipping through his sketchbook. “Thank you, _lyubov moya_ ,” he says, voice warm and kind. “You flatter me.”

Yuuri grunts in embarrassment and brings a hand up to cover the side of his face. For reasons he couldn’t possibly explain, terms of endearment sound even _more_ intimate when spoken in Viktor’s native language; the way his tongue curls around the foreign words is wholly different compared to the English they speak with each other—or Viktor’s clumsy Japanese. 

Viktor laughs again. 

“So what was your reason for coming?” Yuuri mumbles a moment later, looking up after jotting a few more words down. “Inspiration, you said?” 

Viktor opens his mouth to reply, then promptly snaps it shut. He folds his arms over his chest with a petulant furrow in his brow, looking for all the world like a child about to throw a temper tantrum. “Do I always need a reason to see—”

“Vitya.”

The Russian man huffs a lengthy sigh but quickly straightens, expunging the grumpy façade at once. His face then positively _lights_ up at the prospect of sharing what has him so eager, and he waves his sketchbook, excitedly, in the air. “Right!” he exclaims. “I had a dream.”

“A dream…” Yuuri slowly repeats. “Congratulations.”

“But not just any dream!” he insists, eyes wide and disregarding Yuuri’s jest entirely. “It made me want to paint until my fingers bleed and my hands fall off!” 

Yuuri wrinkles his nose. “That’s a bit morbid.”

Viktor flaps a hand in the air, effectively waving the statement away. He sets his book down to grab the bundle of pencils instead and pulls the ribbon free with his teeth. Yuuri almost protests the action, wanting to remind Viktor that he has such a beautiful smile and shouldn’t damage his teeth undoing such tight _knots_. But then he realizes he’d sound a bit too much like his mother, so he keeps quiet.

“But it was about _you_ , _solnyshko_ ,” Viktor emphasizes, pointing a pencil in Yuuri’s direction. “You, the most magical garden, and bursts of every color in the rainbow.” He says that last sentence with his arms spread wide, like doing so will paint the scene right before Yuuri’s eyes.

It doesn’t, not really, but a fond smile tugs at his lips nonetheless.

He will never, in a million years, understand how a man as spectacular as Viktor was so drawn to the complete ordinariness that is Katsuki Yuuri. While Yuuri is a dim little star twinkling among millions, an average man in a sleepy town, Viktor is the blazing sun. Yet somehow, Yuuri still manages to weasel his way into this man’s _dreams_ —to become a part of the masterpieces he creates with his own two hands.

Yuuri will likely never understand, but it makes him giddy all the same. 

But of course, such poetic thoughts never last long when in Viktor’s presence, as he constantly feels the need to shatter the moment.

“There was quite a lot of skin, too,” Viktor adds with a wink, casually twirling the pencil between his elegant fingers. “I don’t expect you to strip for me right _now_ , of course, but…” He stops and smiles up at Yuuri, innocently batting his lashes. “Perhaps later, dearest?” 

Yuuri nearly chokes on his own spit.

“Right now I just need a few sketches of that gorgeous face of yours,” he pushes on, grabbing hold of his sketchbook once more and flipping to a page that isn’t covered in splotches of watercolor or coffee rings. “For reference.”

Yuuri's face burns hotter than the onsen outside, and he buries it in his hands with a groan. “You are _shameless_.” 

When he peeks through his fingers, he sees Viktor merely shrug with a smile, ever so pleased with himself and definitely not denying it. 

“Now, Yuuri…” Viktor looks up and turns his body to face him completely. “Will you do me the honor of being my model for the night?” 

Though Yuuri could likely win awards for being the world’s most shy and skittish, and modeling will _never_ be his forte, he doesn’t even have to think on his decision; because he would move mountains and rearrange the span of the entire galaxy if Viktor only asked—so, Yuuri grunts in what could be considered agreement and pushes his glasses up onto his head to rub at his eyes, clearing away the weariness that’s just beginning to creep in.

He was going to force himself to stay awake a while longer to get all that he needed out of his brain and onto paper anyhow; he might as well let Viktor get a few sketches in, too, if he must.

“As if I could ever say no to you,” Yuuri replies with a lazy smile, shifting his glasses back into place.

Viktor quickly snaps him out of said weariness when he lets out a triumphant ‘ _whoop!_ ’ in response and jostles the futon, sending pencils bouncing and rolling straight onto the wooden floor.

Yuuri jolts and frantically waves his hands, like doing so will magically put a stop to the ruckus, and hushes Viktor as sternly as he can to get his point across without being just as loud.

His parents may hold off on asking about all the noise until tomorrow, but Mari has no such qualms. When Yuuri had first made it apparent that him and Viktor were no longer just close friends, but romantically involved, she had seized the opportunity to waylay Viktor in the hallway one night and give him quite the talking to—one that involved threats of breaking Viktor’s fingers if he ever broke Yuuri’s heart; with her long, deadly pipe, identical to those wielded by the samurai who ran wild in Edo. 

Whether or not she really has one remains a mystery, but Yuuri’s sure that interrupting one’s beauty rest is reason enough to whip it out. 

Once things have resettled and Viktor’s been properly scolded, Yuuri wipes away the sweat accumulating on his brow from an everlasting condition he’s now dubbed ‘Viktor induced stress’, and clears his throat to compose himself a little. He loves Viktor—he really, truly does—but he is _the_ most intense man Yuuri’s ever met in his life.

Yuuri rolls his shoulders and smooths a hand over the fabric of his navy blue yukata, mentally preparing as much as one can on such short notice. “So, how do you want me?” he asks, voice curious yet determined.

He expects this session to be fairly relaxed, given the time and spontaneity of it all, but he can never be too sure with Viktor; he knows now to consistently double check.

“A—ah?” Viktor stutters in question, pausing where he’s still reorganizing his mess. When he catches Yuuri’s eye, his nose is painted a rosy pink, and Yuuri is suddenly privy to the innuendo that managed to slip out.

Yuuri, for once, is unphased. He snorts. It would seem that for all of Viktor’s signature bravado, Yuuri taking charge every now and again will likely be his undoing. 

The look he levels at Viktor is particularly unimpressed, and he pointedly roves his eyes over the utter chaos residing on his bedroom floor: pens, pencils, and paints galore.

Viktor perks up in understanding. “Oh! Right—yes, um…” He looks back down at the disarray before him, hand stalling in midair and fingers lightly dancing, like he could physically pluck the item he’s searching for out of pure nothingness. “Aha!” he cries, withdrawing the shabbiest pencil out of what looks like hundreds that are brand new. 

He scratches the lead against a clean page in his sketchbook and rubs circles over it with his thumb, then turns to Yuuri again with a smile, seemingly satisfied. “Posing won’t be necessary—and I’d hate to impose on your precious writing time more than I have already, so…” He twirls a hand in Yuuri’s direction. “As you were! Just pretend I’m not even here, darling.”

Yuuri scoffs, though not unkindly. “‘Pretend I’m not even here,’ he says.” Yuuri picks up his pen and swivels in his seat, finally returning to his work. “Like that’s possible.”

“ _Yuuuuri_ ,” Viktor whines, then mumbles under his breath, “I’m not _that_ annoying…” Yuuri snickers.

Unsurprisingly, Yuuri doesn’t get much work done—but he does complete more than he originally thought he would. 

Working on their respective projects while in the same room is one thing, and is usually quite helpful for Yuuri. Knowing that the man beside him is working so diligently is often incentive enough to keep pushing himself, to work just as hard whilst the air of motivation spurs him on. The overall environment is pleasant, too—calming. He revels in the companionable silence that surrounds them like a blanket for two, and the comfort of simply being in each other’s presence, feeling no desire to fill the space with pointless chatter. It’s nice—relaxing, even—and is something Yuuri never thought he’d have the pleasure of experiencing with another person… but… 

Working while continuously being _stared_ at is completely different. 

Viktor’s gaze is tangible; a featherlight touch tickling the tops of his cheeks and a gentle finger down the slope of his nose; a shadowy hand caressing the nape of his neck and a phantom kiss pressed to his chapped lips. It’s as if Yuuri could turn around and grasp the very threads of it, and yank Viktor closer.

Something about being the center of Viktor’s attention, feeling his eyes slowly rake over every facet of Yuuri that’s visible, leaves him feeling on top of the world and thoroughly scatterbrained simultaneously. 

It makes him feel desirable and confident in a way entirely foreign to his past self, to the man he was before getting swept up in the tsunami of effervescence that is Viktor Nikiforov. It’s not a sensation that sticks, as he’s still riddled with perpetual anxiety and insecurity that will likely never fade completely with Viktor’s love alone—that’s something Yuuri has to work on on his own, too—but it’s become much more commonplace; a wonderful, albeit confusing, amalgamation of intense emotion swirling within.

So while the feeling may be magical, strong enough to convince Yuuri that he’s capable of anything, _everything_ , it subsequently turns his brain to mush as well. 

He starts out strong whilst his head is still clear, the hand which dons his beloved fountain pen practically racing across page after page until it inevitably slows the more conscious he becomes of Viktor’s staring. Yuuri flits between jotting down further character descriptions and intricate plot details, to unrelated segments of poetry or dialogue he could use elsewhere, quickly scribbling them in the back of his notebook to avoid losing them. 

He’s forced to carry this out whilst fighting down the fiercest blush as time goes on—which proves to be a losing battle—blazing hot and inching high enough to turn his ears a fiery shade of red. It takes a herculean effort not to turn his head and see if Viktor notices, though Yuuri’s absolutely sure that he does; studying him as intensely as he is, it must be impossible to miss. 

That thought alone has his face burning even hotter.

Minutes pass, and Yuuri continues to wrangle his focus into submission for as long as he can. Though, soon after, once he’s marked down a few more haphazard notes he won’t be able to make sense of tomorrow, he inevitably caves. His pen scratches to a halt after scrawling one last question mark on the page beneath it, and his eyes instinctively dart upward. 

Viktor and him have always been in sync, surprisingly attuned to one another since the day they first crossed paths; so it’s no surprise when Viktor looks up from his own work just as Yuuri does, their gazes meeting from opposite sides of the room. 

Viktor’s eyes widen in surprise at suddenly facing him head on, but his expression quickly shifts to that of clear amusement, those same eyes now glimmering with mirth. He smiles, fondness etched into the barely there lines around his mouth, and lifts a hand to give Yuuri a little wave.

Yuuri swiftly looks away, biting his lip to quell the downright _goofy_ smile threatening to break free, and sets his pen back down on his desk. Viktor laughs merrily, and it rings in his ears like tinkling bells.

“Am I making you nervous, Yuuri?” Viktor asks, leaning to the side to rifle through his bag. Yuuri’s unable to make out what exactly he retrieves, as it’s enclosed in his fist, but he doesn’t have much time to focus on it anyway, for Viktor immediately stuns him with another one of his notorious smile-wink combinations. “Flustered?” 

Yuuri coughs into his fist. “Of course not,” he says, and it’s not a complete lie. Nervous? No, that’s not the right word for it. Perhaps during the onset of their relationship, but certainly not now. Flustered? … Well. That seems slightly more fitting, yes. 

“Spending so much time with you, I’ve had to learn to get over that,” he adds.

Viktor chuckles and nods, and Yuuri jumps in his seat when the item in his grasp is revealed by the unmistakable sound of a pocket knife flicking open. He then pales at the sight of Viktor easily bringing it down to sharpen the _very_ short writing utensil in his opposite hand, fingers and blade much too close together.

“What are you—?!” Yuuri lurches forward to make a grab for it, which, in hindsight, is not the brightest idea. “ _That_ makes me nervous!”

Viktor jerks back and holds the knife high above his head, just out of reach. “Yuuri!” He tries and fails to keep his countenance stern, giving way to a mischievous grin instead. “Worry not, love. You, of all people, should know I am _great_ with my hands.” 

Yuuri splutters and throws his own hands up in exasperation, shifting to turn away, but Viktor is quick to stop him. “Wait—ah, can you turn to face me again? Just for a moment?” he asks. His voice is distracted now, a clear sign that his attention is being pulled elsewhere. 

Yuuri sinks a little lower in his chair and looks down his nose at the Russian man sitting mere feet away. “I thought you didn’t need me to pose…”

“Hm? Who said anything about posing?” Viktor inquires without looking up. He extends his arms in front of him to examine the sketch from afar, then brings it closer to his face, squinting. “Perhaps I just want to get lost in your eyes.”

“Do you?”

“After you’re done posing for me, yes.”

Yuuri whines wordlessly.

“Oh, quit pouting. That’s my job,” he quips. “I just need a quick sketch of you facing forward and then I’ll be finished for the night.” Viktor smiles up at him, reassuring. “Promise.”

Yuuri sighs, feeling dubious, but adjusts in his seat to give Viktor a clear view of his face anyway. “Finished for the night, meaning you’ll sleep for a few hours once you are done, wake up, and then continue painting until early tomorrow morning?” he asks, because he’s quite familiar with the routine by now. 

Viktor’s eyebrows rise and he hums in mock approval. “You know me so well, _solnyshko_.”

“That’s not a healthy schedule to keep, Vitya, and you know it,” he remarks with a frown.

Viktor pauses and looks up, indignance written all over his face. “Yours is not any better!”

… Yuuri has to admit, he’s got him there.

“Well. Yes, I suppose you’re right…” he concedes and shakes his head, a self-deprecating laugh bubbling past his lips. “We’re terrible.”

Viktor snorts in assent. “The worst.”

Their quiet laughter mingles amongst the scratching of Viktor’s pencil and the shuffling of his papers, and the ease with which their interactions flow makes Yuuri’s heart swell with affection. 

Yuuri never thought he’d have this—never. Just a year prior, romance was the farthest thing from his mind. And when his brain did supply him with what he deemed to be frivolous fantasies about such things, none of them held a candle to what he has now. Yuuri expected to settle down with some man or woman in the nearby neighborhood—a baker, a fisherman, a member of his mother’s Monday morning book club. He expected somebody as average as Yuuri and the very town they live in. Nothing special.

He would never have allowed himself to even _dream_ of this, though. Of loving and being loved by a man so zestful and spontaneous it leaves him breathless, whose hair cascades like a river of honey down his shoulder when bathed in the golden light of Yuuri’s bedroom, and whose eyes shimmer like diamonds Yuuri could never afford.

But that’s alright—because Yuuri could be stripped of all the money he has, and as long as Viktor stayed by his side, he’d be the happiest man on earth; rich in life and love.

He wants to kiss him. 

_Oh_ , he wants to kiss him—needs to. The opportunity hasn’t presented itself tonight, what with falling through windows and everything else, much too distracted—and Yuuri isn’t usually one to initiate romantic gestures anyway—but the desire is massive and visceral, hits him like a ton of bricks. 

All at once, Yuuri goes from sitting (somewhat) patiently in his seat, to fidgeting like mad; bouncing his leg, tapping his feet, tugging at the loose threads on his sleeves. He’s just glad Viktor seems too focused at the moment to point it out. 

Viktor’s eyes jump fleetingly from paper to Yuuri’s face, looking but not seeing, and it takes all of Yuuri’s willpower and the Japanese propriety engraved into his very soul over the years to not launch himself across the room, right into the man’s lap; Yuuri would hate himself if he were the cause of some major artistic mistake when Viktor is clearly putting in a great deal of effort right now.

So the second Viktor makes it apparent that he’s finished—heaving an enormous sigh, cracking his neck, and tucking all of his materials safely away (knife included)—Yuuri bunches the fabric of his long sleeves within clenched fists and carefully slides off the chair to his knees, now eye-level with Viktor just at the foot of his bed.

And then he allows said propriety to drop and lets this unprecedented, animalistic urge take over instead, grabbing Viktor by the sides of his face and jerking him closer.

Viktor squawks inelegantly and pitches forward, steadying himself by grabbing hold of Yuuri’s slender frame and allowing their lips to finally, _finally_ press together. The kiss is uncoordinated and clumsy, giggling into each other’s mouths, yet it’s still the most satisfying reward following hours of such ‘hard work’. 

It tastes of skin and warmth, tea and sickly sweet jam, and something so distinctly Viktor that Yuuri can’t help but hum contentedly no matter how messy the kiss may be. Viktor chuckles in response to his obvious gratification and the sound buzzes pleasantly in his ears, making a warmth so intense bloom in his chest that he’s helpless to do anything but melt.

Yuuri huffs a laugh. Their lips are stretched taut around giddy smiles, the kiss more clashing teeth than anything else, though it’s no less enjoyable. _To hell with it_ , Yuuri thinks, and allows himself the pleasure of moving just that little bit closer; until their chests are pressed together, their hearts beating in tandem, and he’s plopping himself right into Viktor’s lap like he’s been aching to. 

Viktor lets out a happy squeak over Yuuri’s sudden boldness, and it only makes Yuuri laugh harder, a reaction in stark contrast to the scalding blush he can feel blooming across his cheeks as they continue on.

Yuuri breaks the kiss with a loud _smack_ a moment later to catch his breath, letting his arms rest atop Viktor’s shoulders whilst his hands hang, dangling fingers dancing idly over the broad expanse of Viktor’s back—and Viktor tugs him impossibly closer, arms wrapped loosely around Yuuri’s plush waist until he can sway them side to side, gentle and comforting. It’s like being rocked to sleep, Yuuri notes, and he’s not surprised when his eyes even begin to droop ever so slightly. Yuuri gives in to the feeling and leans down to rest his head on his shoulder, too. 

All Viktor would have to do now is hum the soft notes of some old Japanese lullaby (and he has no doubt Viktor could pick one up from Hiroko in an instant if he really tried), and Yuuri would be out cold. 

“I—uh. I’m sorry,” Yuuri finally stammers, remembering himself. His fingers clench rhythmically in the silk of Viktor’s shirt, head still down, embarrassment seeping into his bones. “I, uh… couldn’t resist.”

Viktor lets out a harsh puff of air, a breathy laugh that tickles the side of Yuuri’s face, and the tension in his stomach uncoils at the sound. “You never need to apologize over a kiss, darling,” he replies, voice low. “You have blanket permission to do whatever you want with me. Surely you know that by now, yes?”

The implication of that particular statement sends shivers down Yuuri’s spine, but he shoves the thought away for a later date. “Ah, I… yes, I suppose I do,” Yuuri stutters out eventually. He pulls one of his hands down to drag absentminded patterns against the other’s chest with the tip of his finger. The silk dips and wrinkles under his touch, but Viktor’s body remains rock solid. 

“Doesn’t excuse my aggressiveness but… like I said…” Yuuri turns his face and presses a chaste kiss to Viktor’s cheek, mumbling against his skin, “Couldn’t resist.”

“Even if I sustained some horrific neck injury from you yanking me around like that, it would’ve been worth it anyway,” Viktor quips.

“Don’t say things like that!”

Viktor just laughs and laughs, then presses a featherlight kiss to Yuuri’s temple. 

“Can we lie down?” Yuuri murmurs a second later. The mental effort required to write something he’s actually proud of typically manifests into physical exhaustion once he’s finished, and sleep now calls to him in the most enticing siren’s song. He can feel himself swaying, and it’s not because of Viktor’s soothing movements this time.

“Of course,” Viktor replies, already readjusting his position with Yuuri still in his arms to slowly lay them back, kicking the blankets down with his feet to get underneath them. “Are you tired?”

Yuuri scoffs, gripping the blanket once they’ve finally settled and pulling it up to his chin. With his head resting on Viktor’s chest, a steady heartbeat thumps heavy in Yuuri’s ears—and he snuggles closer. “You’re not?” he asks, disbelieving. The sun should be rising in just a couple hours from now. 

Viktor hums in contemplation, then shrugs. Yuuri feels the movement more than he sees it. “It’ll hit me soon,” he says. “But I’m fine just lying here with you until it does.”

Yuuri smiles softly, and it only grows when Viktor reaches down to pluck the glasses from his face, gently setting them on the floor so they don’t disturb him while he sleeps. Yuuri mumbles a quiet _thank you_ and Viktor squeezes him tight in response, his arms strong and protective around Yuuri’s waist.

Yuuri’s always loved these moments—cherished the sleepy soft minutes before he drifts out of consciousness, the world hazy around the edges but their affection somehow even more vivid. 

They’ll mumble nonsense to each other until early morning makes itself known, taking mellow sunbeams peeking through the window as their cue to finally drift off. And then they’ll slumber on until Mari deems it imperative she comes pounding on his door, nagging about early rising guests needing their breakfast served, about the snow needing to be shoveled out front, and whatever other onsen duties need immediate tending to. Yuuri can already feel how bone-tired he’ll be when that inevitably occurs, and suppresses an irritated groan. There’s a great many things he appreciates about working in the family business, but being woken up so early is definitely not one of them. 

All Yuuri ever longs to do during the winter season, when the air is crisp and icy in his lungs and the roads are packed with snow, is curl up in as many thick blankets as he can get his hands on—preferably with a certain silver haired Russian, this year—and sleep the days away, like a bear in hibernation. But apparently that is a luxury that cannot be afforded to him.

Though, speaking of winter… 

“It’s almost your birthday,” Yuuri says—whispers, really. If the small jolt that racks Viktor’s body is any indication, the man was almost asleep until Yuuri spoke up again, and he swallows the desperate urge to apologize a second time.

“It is, isn’t it?” Viktor replies, words slurred with fatigue and a thick accent that only emerges during times such as this. “Is Mari going to greet me with a gift and another joke about my receding hairline?”

That summons a burst of laughter from Yuuri, who turns to bury his face in Viktor’s shirt. He doesn’t have much time to feel guilty over it, though, as Viktor quickly joins in, the sound muted but deep, rumbling in his chest. 

“Oh no, don’t tell me—” Viktor cuts himself off to smother a giggle in his hand. “Don’t tell me _you’re_ in on it, too, Yuuri,” he whines. “Did you both shop around for some magical comb that cures hair loss?”

Yuuri shakes his head in amusement. “You’re ridiculous… but you don’t have to worry about that,” he adds. “You’d look beautiful even if you were bald.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Viktor breathes, and Yuuri feels a brief twinge of regret, bracing himself for Viktor to pop their peaceful bubble, to do something painfully over dramatic due to Yuuri’s passing comment, but then he continues. “You are so very sweet…” he says. “But can we _please_ not put that out into the universe?”

Yuuri’s slight panic and regret promptly recedes, and he snorts, scooting farther up until his nose is nuzzled right below Viktor’s ear. “Sorry,” he replies, offhand. “But… should we celebrate? Would you like that?”

That seems to peak Viktor’s interest, and he suddenly sounds much more awake when he asks, “Celebrate? How so?”

A memory surfaces in his mind, ludacris and stupidly rash, and Yuuri chuckles. “Perhaps we could put up my father’s map and pick a place at random to vacation,” Yuuri muses in jest, “celebrate that way.”

Viktor gasps, playing along. “Yuuri… is my impulsiveness rubbing off on you?” 

“You wish.”

Many months ago—what feels like a lifetime ago, now—when their relationship was fragile and sparkling new, uncharted territory for Yuuri specifically, they’d lied together on a night much like this, and Viktor regaled him with the story of how he wound up in Hasetsu in the first place. 

Of how his parents refused to accept his backup career as a painter, spitting the word out like it was something poisonous. _That’d ruin our reputation_ , they’d said, and the way Viktor’s voice had gone flat and cold still makes Yuuri’s heart clench in his chest. They could handle Viktor being a dancer—barely—though only if it brought in a good sum of money, of course. Which it had until… well, until it hadn’t. 

A world-renowned ballet dancer, traveling the globe and schmoozing with big name celebrities? That was all fine and dandy. But falling back on an occupation that consisted of nothing more than being a ‘lousy starving artist’ was completely unacceptable. Why, sure, Viktor was an adult, but his father worked an important government job, had friends in high places. _We have people to impress_ , he’d hissed. And what could be more distasteful than a son who holes himself up in his bedroom and paints all day? 

Just thinking of Viktor being treated that way hurts.

Viktor, deciding enough was enough and refusing to follow in his father’s footsteps, footsteps that led to accepting a job simply to appease his parents—a job so soulless and stressful that it had his father coming home drained each and every day with nothing to show for it—devised a plan. An impulsive, last minute plan that he told nobody about until the very day he set off; a plan to get away, to start again, to do what made him _happy_.

He went into town with a list that called for nothing more than a world map and some darts, and set to work. 

He cleared the sketches and paintings off his walls, the old ballet related clippings he could never bring himself to take down, and pinned the map over the new empty space. Then, he grabbed a dart out of the box he’d purchased that day, took a step back, closed his eyes… and threw it.

When he opened them, the dart was nestled snugly in the center of Japan. 

Through research and word of mouth—and some _very_ last minute transportation adjustments—Viktor had found his new home. Picturesque and oh-so-quaint Hasetsu. 

On only his third day there, he’d waltzed into Yu-Topia like he’d been there a million times before, and wasn’t just some bright eyed, handsome foreigner that drew attention to himself the second he entered the building. Yuuri had been working at the time, and was even the one who showed Viktor to his seat, trembling with nerves.

“And the moment I saw you,” Viktor had said, “I knew I’d made the best decision of my life.”

Yuuri sighs, thinking about it now, feeling ridiculously smitten all over again. 

“What are you sighing about, love?” Viktor asks, bringing a hand up from Yuuri’s waist to rest in his hair instead, lightly running his fingers through it. 

_I love you so much it hurts_ , Yuuri thinks but doesn’t say. Because a writer he may be, but his words still come out jumbled when he speaks. _I love you so much I feel fit to burst, like my heart is galloping with the force of a thousand horses. I want to hold your hand until we’re old and wrinkled, until my bones ache too much to even hold a pen anymore. I love you so much I could write an entire book about it—and even then I’d still have more to say._

“Nothing,” ( _everything_ ) is what he says instead. “Can you think of any real ideas? For your birthday?” 

Viktor turns his head and presses his lips to Yuuri’s forehead, absent and sleepy, and when he speaks, Yuuri feels the words mouthed against his skin. “You, me, and Makka could go to the beach for a bit… watch the waves,” he mumbles. “And then come back here for dinner. Hiroko could make something special, if she wanted to.” 

Yuuri breathes a laugh. “We do that all the time.”

Viktor groans and uses his larger size to his advantage, turning them both over so they’re lying face to face, noses brushing. Yuuri’s breath hitches at the closeness, his eyes fluttering open, and he’s met with the most enchanting shade of blue, dazzling even in the dimness of his bedroom. Viktor’s lips curl into a smile, and he leans forward to nuzzle their noses together, making Yuuri squirm and titter, trying and failing to push away. 

“I know we do it all the time,” Viktor replies once they’ve settled down, “but it makes me happy…” He presses a tender kiss to the tip of Yuuri’s nose. “You make me happy. So that’s all I really want.”

Yuuri closes the gap between them, and kisses him for real.  
  


* * *

  
Maybe he will write a book about it, in the future. 

He’ll write of a striking foreign man who sticks out less like a sore thumb and more like a peacock brandishing it’s feathers to the world, with his ruffled shirts and velvet coats, flashy rings and the occasional eccentric hat. A man whose hair shines like strands of moonlight woven together in intricate braids on days he’s feeling up to it, and casually flows like a stream down his back when he’s not. Who closed his eyes and wished on a dart that led him all the way to Japan, with a loyal poodle by his side. 

A romance novel. 

Maybe he’ll even publish this one, too. 

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, I will ask you to suspend your disbelief for a second, because I imagined this taking place around 1850 something, and apparently darts weren't invented until the 1890s?! Whatever. We'll pretend they were already around for the sake of Viktor's back story lmfao. 
> 
> This took _way_ too long to write, but thank you to [tendouz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tendouz/pseuds/tendouz) for constantly yelling at me to keep going until it was finally finished, and for reading through it multiple times when I felt like I was going insane and needed a second pair of eyes on it (*´ー`)
> 
> And like I said, I couldn't pick an exact year for this to take place in, so if something seems off just... let it be haha. I just really wanted an excuse to write about Viktor in ruffly shirts and the last paragraph is the whole reason this fic even exists (^▽^;)
> 
> ALSO? THE ICEADO TEASER VIDEO? I'm deceased. Fuck.
> 
> Okay, anyways... I talk to much. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> **Comments & kudos are greatly appreciated!** | Come scream at me on my **[YOI tumblr](https://vitya-z.tumblr.com/)**


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